


Once, then never more

by miasmatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ghosts, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, Mindless Fluff, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"I can't stay that long today", Sherlock said finally, but I'll come back tomorrow night."</em><br/>"Of course", John said. "Three nights. 'How fares my child, how fares my roe? Once more shall I come, and then never more.'"<br/>"I didn't know you read Grimm's fables", Sherlock smiled, and John drifted off again, his hand loosening his grip on Sherlock's, but not quite letting go.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Just a piece of fluff I wrote on Halloween to appease my ghosts. Where John has a visitor - and only three nights to speak his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once, then never more

"John."  
  
"John. Wake up."  
  
The dead man's voice was insistent, painfully familiar, and John couldn't resist its lure. Reluctanty, he opened his eyes. The room was dimly lit, but full of noise and apparent chaos like any ICU. And pain. Of course, the pain. John felt his face scrunch up, and he gasped as he became aware of the dull pain in his abdomen, overlaid by the sharp agony of recent surgery. Oh, yes. That'd be the reason why he'd rather not be - here.  
But here was that voice, and there was the possibility the dead man was actually here and wanted to - whatever the dead wanted. Take him home? He'd heard stories about that. That would be good.  
"Hey, John."  
The shape next to his bed resolved into a man dressed in a suit, black suit, tight black shirt, skin very white, eyes grey, an angular face underneath a shock of dark curls. A tight little smile, tired eyes.  
"No", John choked, "You're dead." And he fled again to that place beyond pain - and beyond confusion.  
  
  
"John."  
He didn't want to, but see, here's the thing: When the dead call you, you answer. And so John's mind coalesced reluctantly, shuffling back to consciousness heavily like a man condemnded. There he was again, black suit and shirt, dark curls, like a carrion bird, perched on a chair by the bed, eyeing him curiously. Just like a ruffled raven, angular, alert, and ethereal. Not of this world.  
"Adequate", he said, and knew he'd said that aloud only when his throat hurt.  
"Adequate?" When Sherlock cocked his head like that, the resemblance was even more striking.  
"You, here, looking like a bird of death.", John managed, and that was the most he had spoken in - what had it been? Days? Weeks? He had no way of knowing. Sherlock smiled. "On the contrary, John", he said, "I'm here to persuade you not to die."  
"Are you? How sad."  
  
John found he couldn't escape Sherlock's gaze, his inscrutable grey eyes fixed on him with a question and, and, care? He'd thought Sherlock's ghost, his of all, to be beyond that. "Curious", he mused.  
"What's curious?"  
"Nothing. Just - you haven't changed."  
"I like to think I did", Sherlock sighed. "That's why I came back. I've been a bit of an asshole, haven't I."  
John thought about that and about how death did change things, changed one's perspective. Thought about how this was the chance many people would kill and die for, the chance to tell. To purge one's soul of all that festering regret. Set the record straight. To find peace, eventually.  
"No", he said, "you're wonderful. I love you."  
At that, the ghost seemed to deflate, his posture on the chair changed, he sagged, turned his head as if he'd been slapped, his eyes slid off John and met the floor. "I don't deserve that", he whispered, and John felt Sherlock take his hand, felt him weave his fingers through John's, and he wondered why the dead man's hands were so warm. But the mind played tricks on you, John knew, especially oxygen-starved minds poisoned by infection, when death was so close.

"I can't stay that long today", Sherlock said finally, but I'll come back tomorrow night."  
"Of course", John said. "Three nights. 'How fares my child, how fares my roe? Once more shall I come, and then never more.'"  
"I didn't know you read Grimm's fables", Sherlock smiled, and John drifted off again, his hand loosening his grip on Sherlock's, but not quite letting go.  
  
  
  
"John."  
The third night, the final, night. Waking up was easier tonight, and John knew this was a good sign. He healed, even despite himself.  
Sherlock watched him from where he sat on the chair, head cocked, curious. "You look better."  
"I was wrong about you", John said.  
"Why's that?"  
"You didn't come to take me home with you."  
"I can't, John. Not right now."  
"Then why did you come?"  
"Would you rather be alone?"  
John thought about that, about being alone since Sherlock's death, and closed his eyes.  
"But I will be when you leave."  
And there really wasn't anything the ghost had to say about that. So instead, he ran his hand through John's short hair, trying to smooth it back from his brow, though it wasn't remotely long enough for that. Still, it felt nice, and John thought that sometimes, you had to enjoy things while they lasted.  
  
"Can I ask a favour?"  
"Anything."  
"Can I touch your hair?"  
Sherlock smirked, but fondly, and shook his head, but complied, shifting to sit on John's bedside, bowing his head. John raised a hand and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, amazed how smooth and soft it was. A trick of his mind, of course, you cannot actually touch a ghost, and he knew that. But he had always imagined it to be like that.  
"Did you? Imagine it?" Sherlock asked, and John wasn't sure if he had said that aloud, or if Sherlock's ghost was able to read minds. He rested his hand on Sherlock's cheek.  
"I missed you very much", he said. "I wish you'd take me home."  
"I will", Sherlock nodded, "Eventually. It's just not time yet." When John's strength ran out, Sherlock took John's hand and held it to his cheek.  
John's heart felt heavy in his chest, about to burst. "I'm glad you're here. I miss you. I've missed you every day since you died. It's been so hard to be left behind. I tried to hate you for what you did. I couldn't. But there's this love that can't go anywhere now. That hurts. That hurts so much. I'm glad that at least... at least I can tell you now. Of that, I'm grateful."  
"I know", Sherlock whispered. "Of course. Yes. I know." And with that, Sherlock pressed a kiss on John's brow.  
"That's very nice", John breathed, his strength spent, and even though he wanted to stay, enjoy those last hours, he couldn't keep his eyes open. On the edge of his consciousness, he heard Sherlock's voice, softly, whispering "How fares my child, how fares my roe, I will come this once, then never more". He fell asleep smiling, finally at peace.  
  
  
And that's how Mrs. Hudson found him the next morning, when she came to bring him clothes and flowers (which were, as always, invariably confiscated by the nurses) - smiling in his sleep, his colour better, John obviously recovering. He woke up when she came in.  
"You look better, love!" she announced, and he replied: "I dreamt of Sherlock."  
"Oh, bless! I bet you did, John, given how he sat with you all these nights. He's good like that, isn't he."  
John started nodding when he realized he didn't understand a word of what Mrs. Hudson was saying.  
"What - you're saying you saw him too?"  
"No, of course not. He's the night shift. Someone has to be here, you know. To look after you. Those nurses cannot be trusted. Oh, look at that, what have they done to your shirt! It's all cut up and bloody."  
"He was here? Sherlock was here?"  
"Yes, dearie. Every night. Are you sure you're not running a fever again?"  
"But, he's dead."  
Only then did Mrs. Hudson stop folding laundry and turned to John, registering his distress: "But, John, Mycroft Holmes told you! On that first day here. When he came back. You were awake and all. Don't you remember? Oh, but you were quite sick and had your operation that night."  
"Must have forgotten about it... Some anaesthetics cause retrograde amnesia..."  
"Whatever that means, hun. Now, John, how about we try some food? The nurses said you can try a piece of pastry if you feel like it. I made it myself."  
  
  
"John."  
He woke to the sensation of fingers trailing the nape of his neck. Lying on his side, he blinked and saw Sherlock, who sat next to him on his bed, very close, very solid. He could smell him, spice and soap and wool. Could you smell a ghost? John's hand, lying open on the bed, twitched and betrayed him. Sherlock took it, held it, and John felt like there wasn't enough air in the world.  
"You're not dead."  
The fingers stopped running through his hair, just for a moment, before they resumed their soothing motion. "No."  
"But you knew I thought you were dead. And you didn't think to tell me. Sherlock!"  
"I wasn't sure how much you understood. You didn't make sense all the time."  
John couldn't face Sherlock, averted his gaze. Pulled up his knees. Studied the bruises on the back of his hand where catheters had left a mark.  
"The things I said..." He stopped, couldn't continue. Then a rustle of fabric, and then Sherlock very close, warm and alive, strange and familiar at once. Hands cradling his head, a kiss pressed on his brow. Then drawing back, looking down at him with a fondness that made John's heart flip and drop. Impossibly close, yet not close enough. "I came back when I heard. Rushed back. Took the first flight. Took a cab. Ran. Thinking you might die before I had a chance to talk to you again... That wouldn't do." Sherlock stopped and kissed John's temple, lingering, breathing into John's hair. "Clearly, John, I love you very, very much."  
How that had happened, he couldn't tell, but while Sherlock talked, John had somehow curled around Sherlock, who still sat on the bed. Curled around him to be closer, feel how solid he was, warm, how alive. He nodded. "That's good. That's very good. Isn't it. I mean, yes..." His voice trailed off when he realized he was babbling. Sherlock's arm somehow ended up underneath the cover and cradled his shoulders, and that felt nice.

Nonetheless, just for good measure, he punched Sherlock's thigh, feebly, which hurt because he'd used the hand with the IV in it, and said: "You're still an asshole, by the way. Scratch the 'a bit' part." To that, Sherlock just rubbed his shoulders and laughed.  
"Tell me", John demanded, "How you survived. Tell me again, I guess. I don't remember."  
Sherlock smirked, exasperated. "I knew you wouldn't. Retrograde amnesia, obviously. I told Mycroft, but the imbecile wouldn't believe me. John, I swear he's adopted! So. How I survived. It's a long story. Are you comfortable? Close your eyes. There. So.  
  
"Once upon a time, there was a man who had brought a gun to a game of battle of minds. That man's name was Moriarty, and he met our hero on a roof..."

And there, listening to Sherlock's story, basking in his voice and warmth, John realized he'd go home after all.


End file.
